


The Art of Observation

by toesohnoes



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toesohnoes/pseuds/toesohnoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes observes Watson before they officially meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Observation

**Author's Note:**

> Written at my [Tumblr](http://toestastegood-fic.tumblr.com/post/14774715735/holmes-chews-on-the-end-of-his-pipe-his-is-an).

Holmes chews on the end of his pipe (“his” is an altogether subjective term in this instance: it is “his” pipe in as much as he is the one currently making use of the object, but in terms of actual ownership his claim to it is negligable) as he observes the man across the room from him. Doctor John Watson, he remembers. Despite all claims of his apparent absent-mindedness, he does in fact make a living from recalling minute details. One may even call it a talent.

Holmes is therefore far more capable of remembering Watson than he has previously pretended to be. The doctor is an interesting fellow, bright enough in his own way and with a taste for adventure that could prove to be terribly useful - almost as useful as that steady aim and solid punch. A worthy companion, to be sure.

More than that, it must be said, Holmes’s thoughts are travelling along a certain less practical line: because as certainly as he deduces Watson’s skill with a gun he is able to imagine him in other settings. Far more than mere imagination, this is solid reasoning and fact. He can tell at a glance how Watson would look if he stripped away his heavy coat and neat suit. The thought alone makes him bite down on his borrowed pipe to restrain himself. It wouldn’t do to allow his mind to run away with itself.

(Yet he can see quite clearly how events would unfold if he were to take the good doctor somewhere private and dimly lit, if he were to allow his hands to linger for just a moment longer than they ought to. He knows that Watson would never think of pushing him away, and would likely even give in if Holmes offered the first, brave kiss. What follows is a mental array of skin and sweat that makes Holmes tug at his shirt collar in an attempt to calm himself down once more.)

“Waiter!” he calls, flicking his fingers at a passing fellow who could possibly go by such a title: in an establishment as likely to offer bruises as hangovers, the term is possibly overwrought. “Would you send my friend a drink for me?”

With a few coins it is easy to send the right message.

Holmes ends the evening with Watson by his side.


End file.
